“I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. It engulfed them in black, white, and gray. Gray and tranquil world! Amazing, passionless world! A world in which days without meaning, days in which “we don’t want things to happen” followed days without meaning—until the last thing happened, the ultimate, unavoidable, coarse, “disagreeable. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. Ennison reeled, and almost fell. “I think as I feel in a good humour it must be the latter. . "Red apples and snow!" he repeated. A murmur ran through the assemblage, by several of whom Jack was recognised.
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